


Score

by Elfbert



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-05
Updated: 2010-12-05
Packaged: 2017-10-13 12:57:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/137613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elfbert/pseuds/Elfbert
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the Sherlock Kinkmeme</p><p>Prompt: Lestrade takes part in a charity footy match. Obviously Watson volunteers to be team doctor...So when Lestrade gets injured it's only right that they end up in the changing rooms together...and no one else is around.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Score

 

Watson stood, huddled on the touchline, surrounded by men and women who yelled, screamed, groaned or shouted abuse at the referee in turn. He just tried to stay warm, and wondered why he'd allowed anyone to talk him into 'helping out'. And how Sherlock had managed to volunteer him, whilst avoiding it entirely himself. He was probably tucked up on the sofa, getting Mrs Hudson to fetch him tea. Bastard.

 

The eleven men of the Scotland Yard team were winning – one nil up, although the goal had been scrappy, and it was more luck than any particular skill. The earlier banter between the teams had seemed calm enough, but on the pitch, as the tension grew, and the minutes ticked past, the game was getting rougher. So much for a friendly charity match. The Traffic cops were making it clear they didn't intend to lose to a bunch of desk-bound detectives. Watson looked down at the bucket at his feet – hardly the height of medical technology, a wet sponge in a bucket, but it seemed to be what everyone expected. And he did also have his medical bag, and had needed it a few times already.

 

He tracked the ball – booted from one end of the field to the other, back again, the odd bit of passing and a few clumsy tackles. He'd rather be watching Football Focus, warm, on the sofa, with a nice cup of tea and maybe some biscuits.

 

Another crunching tackle resulted in someone rolling about on the floor, clutching their leg as if it was about to fall off. Watson wondered if he was watching a sporting event or the local amateur dramatics club. He picked up his bag and the bucket and jogged onto the pitch, kneeling on the cold ground and peeling back the man's sock. No blood, barely a bruise. He pulled out his can of Deep Freeze and sprayed it liberally over the 'injury'.

 

"Alright mate, there you go, try and run it off."

 

Someone behind him gave a laugh – a familiar one, and he turned to see Lestrade, drinking from one of the bottles he carried on his medical kit, pouring the drink into his open mouth. Sweaty, muddy, plenty of stubble and hair sticking up at even more unruly angles than usual, and very nice legs…Watson hastily packed grabbed his kit and tried to ignore the fact his eye line was at the height of Lestrade's crotch. He wasn't going there. He wasn't thinking about that. He most definitely hadn't been thinking about anything of the sort, not at all, and definitely not since he'd seen the DI warming up that morning, white silky shorts showing off…no, not going there. He ducked his head and ran back to the touchline, feeling distinctly warmer and knowing his cheeks were flushed pink. He tried to avoid watching Lestrade. Tried and failed. He loved the passion on Lestrade's face as he shouted at his teammates, called for the ball, closed his eyes in frustration as a chance was wasted.

 

And when he booted the ball toward goal, the thin, silky white shorts pulled taught over his buttocks…Watson looked away, biting his lower lip.

 

The game was getting more involved, and Watson glanced at his watch. Twenty minutes, twenty more minutes of torture and then he could go back home and try to forget about his sudden, unexpected, obsession.

 

He watched as Lestrade made a run down the wing, arm raised, calling for the ball. He chested it down as it sailed across to him, dribbling it to the box, avoiding one tackle, closing in on goal. Watson found himself wanting to join the cheering, but he didn't, knowing he should try to be impartial.

 

But when the crunching tackle struck Lestrade from the side he couldn't help but add to the gasps and intakes of breath. It took him a second, as the two men fell in a tangled heap, to remember that he should be the one dealing with it. He grabbed up his bags and the bucket again and ran.

 

The man who had tackled Lestrade was thrashing about, rolling from side to side, swearing and gripping his ankle. Lestrade was still, hands clasped around his foot, panting out great white clouds of breath into the cold morning air.

 

Watson grabbed the man who was thrashing about, pulling down his sock and releasing the Velcro on his shin pad.

 

"Where does it hurt, mate?" he asked, trying to concentrate, but also keeping a watchful eye on Lestrade, who was now sitting up, a couple of his team mates patting him on the back and ruffling his hair. The referee was calling for a penalty, and everyone on the Yarder's team seemed pretty contented.

 

Watson dumped some of the cold water on the man's ankle, then used the spray again. He was reasonably sure the man had done nothing more than tweak his ankle when he bundled into Lestrade.

 

"And you?" Watson asked, turning to Lestrade, who was sitting up, his left foot tucked closer to him, right leg stretched out.

 

"Foot," Lestrade answered, wincing as he massaged it through his boot.

 

"Right, we'll have to get your boot off then. May as well come off, no point holding up the game."

 

Lestrade nodded, then shouted at one of his teammates. "Get a sub on, Dawson or Penfold. The doc's going to check out my foot."

 

People nodded and shouted out for the sub. Lestrade reached up and Watson grabbed his hand, pulling him onto his right foot. He assumed Lestrade would hobble to the nearby touchline, but instead Lestrade held out his arm, wrapping it around Watson's shoulder and leaning on him heavily.

 

Watson tried to focus – walking slowly, allowing Lestrade to use him as a crutch. He wasn't quite sure when his arm had slid around Lestrade's waist, but suddenly it was there, gripping the waistband of Lestrade's shorts, feeling the tense muscles of his back.

 

"That's your match done," he said, hoping his voice didn't sound as…off…to Lestrade as it did to his own ears. "We'll sit you down in the changing room, have a look at your foot."

 

"Yeah," Lestrade winced as he put a bit more weight on his foot than intended, and they continued their short journey to the plain concrete changing block.

 

Finally Watson opened the door to the treatment room – a bare room, with a sink, a bed and a few more bits of first-aid kit.

 

"There we go." He stood Lestrade by the bed. "Can you hop up on there?"

 

Lestrade did, and Watson missed the warmth of his body.

 

"Right, we'll just…" he stood close, gently picking the knot of Lestrade's laces, noticing that Lestrade's knuckles were white on the edge of the bed. He looked up, to try to gauge the expression on his face, and found himself mere inches from the dark brown eyes. He looked away again quickly, feeling himself blush, and muttered 'sorry' as he felt Lestrade flinch again.

 

"Just cut them," Lestrade said, as it was obvious that Watson was getting nowhere with the wet, tight, laces.

 

Watson looked up again, without thinking, to be met by the sight of Lestrade biting his lower lip. He desperately wanted to close the gap, to cover those lips with his own – to feel the rough stubble against his skin…

 

"Yes, right, scissors," he moved away, fumbling with his bag, finally finding them and cradling Lestrade's foot in his hand as he snipped the knot away, feeling the soft leather relax and hearing Lestrade's hiss of pain.

 

He continued to pull the boot from Lestrade's foot, then remove the sock and shin pad. Finally he removed a cool-pack from his bag and loosely wrapped a bandage around it to keep it in place on top of Lestrade's foot.

 

"Need the swelling to go down," Watson started, then made the mistake of looking back into Lestrade's eyes.

 

The moment seemed to last forever. And then Lestrade's hands were on his waist, pulling him in, reaching for a kiss, those lips he'd been daydreaming about pressed against his.

 

He swallowed, froze, didn't know what to do…and then Lestrade's tongue was pushing against his lips, and he opened his mouth and devoured the other man, arms around Lestrade's back, sliding up into his sweaty hair, holding him tightly.

 

Somewhere inside he could hear a little voice screaming 'This is Lestrade! He's a MAN! You have to work with him!' But somehow, right now, it just didn't matter. What mattered was Lestrade's cold fingers fumbling at the stud on his jeans, sliding against his belly, the leg wrapping around him, ensuring he was trapped.

 

He moved his own hands, one down to Lestrade's neck, gripping him, fingers digging into flesh, the other down and then up inside Lestrade's top, across smooth skin, his short nails digging in.

 

Suddenly Lestrade's hand was inside his jeans, rubbing over his cotton boxers, rubbing over his hard cock – and when had THAT happened? And the soft, satisfied noise that Lestrade was making as they shared a breath, lips breaking apart for a moment, just long enough to pant and look each other in the eye – a single glance, which asked and answered questions faster than any speech ever could.

 

He pulled at Lestrade's shorts, shoving his hand past the elastic waistband and kneading the top of his arse, but needing more, needing to feel more naked flesh.

 

Lestrade obviously felt the same way, because suddenly he was off the table, crowding into Watson, still kissing, but pushing his shorts and underwear down, hopping on one foot, leaving the clothing pooled around the foot his weight was on, before pushing Watson's jeans further down, grabbing his buttocks, forcing their groins together, their hard cocks rubbing together, still separated by the thin barrier of cotton, and Watson knew it was up to him to get rid of that. He was being given the choice – and he took it.

 

He pushed Lestrade back, forcing him up against the bed.

 

Lestrade awkwardly climbed back up to sit on the edge of it, lips still not leaving Watson's.

 

"Lube," he said, into Watson's mouth. The word barely audible.

 

"What?" And then it hit Watson, what they were about to do. Something he'd never thought of, never wanted, never ever dreamed he'd do. Until now.

 

He turned to his bag, feeling Lestrade's hands still stroking down his back, over his buttocks. He emptied the contents out, things rolling off the seat, dropping to the floor, everything in a heap. And then he found it – Vaseline, and old pot, half full. He turned triumphantly.

 

Lestrade grabbed it, span the lid off and chucked it aside, digging his fingers into the soft jelly.

 

Watson pushed down his boxers, his hard cock springing free, and moaned as Lestrade's hand wrapped around it, the Vaseline thick and clinging, but softening on the heat of his erection.

 

"Okay?" Lestrade panted, his dark brown eyes staring deeply into Watson's.

 

"Yes, God, yes," Watson couldn't help but thrust into the tight tunnel of Lestrade's fist.

 

Lestrade dipped his fingers back into the pot, shoved his hand between his legs and pulled Watson close again.

 

And then Lestrade's hand was back on him, guiding him, and the tip of his erection was pressing against Lestrade's arse, Lestrade's leg wrapped around him, pulling him closer.

 

He couldn't believe how tight it felt, how he would ever fit, how he had ever reached the point of shagging a Detective Inspector from Scotland Yard on the bench of a scrubby changing room, but then he was sliding in, and he knew his mouth was hanging open and he didn't know what to do except keep going.

 

Lestrade slid a hand around the back of his neck and pulled him close again, kissing him hard, and Watson lost all control, thrusting, his fingers gripping into Lestrade's buttocks, holding him tight, panting, hearing the grunts and moans of sex and realising he was responsible for at least half of them.

 

And it was all too much – too fast, too tight, too hot and he could feel his balls tightening and his orgasm racing up on him until he thrust so hard that he was sure there was no way he could be any further inside Lestrade. The feeling exploded in his groin, leaving his heart racing and muscles quivering as he pushed in again and again, wringing every last bit of pleasure from his orgasm.

 

He dropped his head forward, resting on Lestrade's shoulder, feeling as if he couldn't possibly stand up on his own, and noticing Lestrade's own erection, slick with precum, straining up in between them.

 

He hesitated for a second before reaching for it, wrapping his fingers around the rock-hard flesh. Smiling when Lestrade gasped. He moved to pull his own softening cock out of Lestrade's slick semen-filled arse, but a strong hand stopped him.

 

"Not yet," Lestrade said, his voice rough.

 

Watson nodded; staying where he was, pumping his fist up and down Lestrade's length, feeling the slight, almost painful, twitches of the other man's muscles, squeezing around his own sensitive shaft.

 

Lestrade leant back, giving him room, making noises which to Watson's ears were obscene, and which he wanted to hear more of.

 

And then the hot flesh in his hand got impossibly harder, and he watched with a strange fascination as Lestrade's balls clenched up, and stream after stream of hot, milky cum spread up over his stomach and chest. Watson squeezed his eyes closed as Lestrade's sphincter clamped around him, and they panted in time, both loose-limbed and shaking.

 

Lestrade finally reached up, wrapping his arms loosely over Watson's shoulders, leaning their foreheads together, breathing in the same air.

 

"Jesus," he finally breathed.

 

Watson just sighed. "I don't…I've never…"

 

"I know." And Watson found himself treated to one of Lestrade's rare smiles – the one that took ten years off him, gave him a boyish air.

 

Watson couldn't help but smile back.

 

Then there was the noise of shouts and voices and the clatter of boots on the tiled floor.

 

"Shit!" Watson grabbed for his jeans, dragging them up and rebuttoning them, ignoring the wet mess at his groin. He pulled Lestrade's shorts up for him, too, giggling as Lestrade put weight on his injured foot and swore as he scrambled for his shirt.

 

Moments later they were both dressed, almost composed, apart from the large grins on their faces, and the lingering smell of sex in the air.

 

"Right, well, I think, um…perhaps you should go for an x-ray?" Watson said, trying to remember what had led to what already felt like it may have been a very vivid fantasy. Wondering if he should feel guilt that he'd had sex with a patient before even reaching a diagnosis.

 

 

The next day Lestrade hopped into work on crutches, his foot encased in foam and plastic.

 

"Jesus, Sir," Donovan exclaimed. "What have you done?"

 

"Metatarsal," Lestrade replied. "The only thing I'll ever have in common with David Beckham, I reckon."

 

Donovan shook her head, smiling. "Well I hope you scored, at least," she said.

 

Lestrade couldn't help but smile widely. "Oh yes."

 

~Fin


End file.
